Just Our Luck
by AllShallFade777
Summary: Stealing a cursed object from a couple of thugs has some rather painful consequences for the boys when the bad guys decide they want it back. And this is the thanks Sam and Dean get for trying to save their lives...An unfortunate (or not, depending how you look at it) twist on the Winchester family luck, with some hurt!Sam and awesomeness all around.
1. Chapter 1

**Set somewhere in the early seasons; probably season two.**

 **Disclaimer: I think we all know by now that if any of us had any claim on them, we wouldn't need fanfiction! :P**

 **This story is (more or less) complete and will be updated weekly. So I won't be posting two chapters and then going AWOL, like I did on a certain other story...**

 **Posted in honor of Supernatural Thursday; something of a holiday even between seasons ;)**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

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JUST OUR LUCK Chapter 1

"Drop it." The gun clicked in metallic threat as the man cocked the weapon. "Drop it right now, or I swear, Winchester, I'll blow his brains out."

Not that they weren't already leaking out of the back of his head. The sight of the blood oozing down Sam's neck made Dean's blood run cold with fear.

"I ain't gonna ask again." The man said. " _Drop. It._ "

Sam practically hung in the man's grip. He was upright only by some miracle, conscious only by some fluke. His eyes, shadowed by blood-streaked bangs and sagging eyelids, focused sluggishly on Dean.

 _I'm right here, man,_ Dean desperately tried to tell him. _I gotcha. I'm not gonna let him do it—_

There was a small _squelch_ as the man pushed the gun barrel against Sam's skull. Sam let out a moan, and his eyes rolled back into his head. His legs crumpled, body going limp in the man's arms.

"NO!" Dean yelled. His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger— _anyone hurts Sammy, they die—_ but didn't shoot. He couldn't, because the man just hoisted Sam back up and kept right on using him to shield himself.

"Now look what you made me do," he drawled indifferently. "You gonna make me pull the trigger, too? Huh? Whaddya say, Winchester? Feel like moppin' up little bro's grey matter?"

Dean's teeth were close to cracking, his jaw was clenched so hard. He pinned the man with his deadliest stare, but they both knew there was nothing Dean could do.

"I thought not." A smug, lazy grin. "Now, you know what I want. Put the gun down, Sammy here lives, and you and I can talk—nice and civil."

In his mind, Dean had already crossed the space between them and killed the man a thousand times over—strangled him, pounded his head against the pavement, beaten him bloody. But Dean knew he couldn't do it. All he could see was his little brother, slumping, pale, with a gun to his head.

He had no choice. Dean's muscles vibrated with tension and protest, but he slowly lowered his weapon.

A look of triumph crossed the man's face. "Good. You made the right decision here, Winchester."

Dean's reply was a growl. "Just give me my brother back, you son of a—"

"Oh, you'll get him back all right, I promise you." The man gave a twisted grin. "Just not _quite_ yet."

Dean scowled. "What the hell are you—"

Footsteps scuffed behind him, and before he could even begin to turn, he felt the winter-cold prick of a needle entering his neck, the burning spike of _something_ as it slipped into his veins. His vision immediately went dark.

"What…what did you…" The question wouldn't form. Dean's legs gave out; his head hit the ground. The next and last thing he was aware of was the sickening thump of his brother's body being dumped beside him, and then there was nothing but darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Posting early cuz I got bored :) Anyway, that first chapter was pretty short; 494 words is way too small a count to leave for an entire week! So...happy Memorial Day everybody! And thank you to the readers, special thank you to the followers, extra special thanks to the favoriter ;) and a giant chocolate gummy bear-sized thanks to those of you who reviewed! Your feedback, interest, and encouragement is much appreciated!**

 **Enjoy!**

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Cold. It was cold when Dean awoke. He opened his eyes, shivering, and found his jacket was gone. Flannel too. A moment to orient himself—a hazy, too-slow moment like dragging himself through mud—and he realized: he was tied to a chair. His wrists were bound behind him. The chill bit through his thin t-shirt, but it was a different kind of cold that told him his weapons were also missing.

The self-inventory took seconds—much longer than normal. Even longer for the nagging question of why it had been a _self_ -inventory in the first place…He was forgetting something.

 _Sam!_

Dean jerked upright. God, how the hell did he forget his own brother? His eyes darted, frantic, and laser-focused on the only other person in the room. It was too dim to make out facial features, but Dean didn't need to. The tall frame, long hair, unfortunate penchant for head injuries—it was definitely Sam. Half the panic eased at knowing his brother was near, but the rest stayed as a pulsating knot in his throat at seeing the condition he was in. Sam was slumped over in another chair, equally bound and stripped to jeans, t-shirt, and shoes, and not moving.

" _Sam,"_ Dean hissed. " _Sammy!"_

No response; Sam was still unconscious.

Dean listened to make sure Sam was breathing—make sure he _was_ only unconscious before allowing himself to breathe. Then he noticed the tall, thin pole standing next to Sam. _What the heck_ ….He squinted, trying to make out what it was, but even though it wasn't _that_ far away, wasn't _that_ dark, he couldn't. His muddled brain refused to decipher what he was seeing.

At a loss, Dean glanced around the room. He turned to look behind him and nearly jumped out his skin when he saw the figure looming there. Wait—not a figure. One of whatever was over by Sam…Then it clicked. Three inches from his nose, how could he not recognize it? And it would certainly explain why his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, his senses strangely muted…

IV poles. They were being drugged.

Dean followed the tube coming from the IV bag down to the needle in his arm. Or rather, the needle that _had been_ in his arm. Somehow it had come loose, and a piece of tape was now the only thing keeping it attached to his skin. A thin trickle of blood marked the place it had been inserted, and whatever had been pumping into his veins was now dripping harmlessly onto the floor.

 _Some kind of sedative?_ Would explain the lingering drowsiness, and why Sam was still out. Unlikely that the needle had slipped from his arm as well. _Or maybe Sam's head wound was just_ that _bad…_

Whatever the stuff was and whatever it was supposed to do, it couldn't have been good rolling around Sam's system when he was likely already dealing with a concussion.

A stab of something Dean couldn't afford to succumb to pierced his chest. Now was not the time for fear. He had to figure a way out of this before those men came back, and that meant taking this one step at a time: get himself free, get Sam, get out. His thinking was addled enough without throwing reckless emotion into the mix.

So, part one of step one: assess the situation.

 _Not good._ The restraint binding him to the chair was rope, but the ones keeping his hands pinned behind him were cuffs. No working at a fray to cut loose here; he was going to have to pick the lock.

Alright, part two of step one: how was he going to do that?

He usually kept something up his sleeve—literally—like a pin or paperclip for just such a situation. But with his jacket gone, so was that option. The bare concrete room offered no solutions. The chairs were metal, thus lacking conveniently loose nails that could be exploited as lock-picks, and the IV poles would be no help, either. The only other thing in here was Sam, and he was out for the count.

Dean straightened. Sam…

Using what little mobility the ropes allowed him, Dean began scooting his chair around, maneuvering so he could push himself backwards over to his brother. With his legs secured to the chair, it was slow, painful going, as he basically had to push his full bodyweight with just the tips of his toes. There were several close calls when he accidentally pushed off too hard and nearly overbalanced, but he kept going, determined, all the while a small smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't believe he'd ever teased Sam for it, but…well, the kid had insisted on stashing a bobby pin in his shoe for just such an emergency. All girly hair jokes aside, it looked like it was actually going to save their lives.

Dean just prayed Sam still had it on him.

He was breathing hard by the time he made it over, but the exertion seemed to have helped clear the drug-induced cobwebs, and he was able to focus at full capacity on the tricky task ahead. He knew that if Sam had the pin on him, it would be in his left boot. Dean could still remember the kid's reasoning: right would be more convenient, as Sam was right-handed, but that same reason made it more likely that his right hand would be injured in a fight. Putting the pin in easy reach of a potentially non-functioning hand was just stupid; therefor, left was better.

 _And he actually used the word 'therefor,'_ Dean remembered, grinning fondly. _God, Sammy, we get out of this, I'll never make fun of your hair or your college-professor level vocabulary ever again._

He had to shake the thoughts away, along with the doubt and fear of that evil little 'if.' He couldn't afford the distraction.

 _Step one, step one, step one_ …

The back of his chair finally bumped up against the side of Sam's. Now for the hard part. For obvious reasons, he couldn't just bend over to get at the pin. He was going to have to…

"Sorry about this, Sammy," Dean muttered, and pushed off from his toes again. This time he allowed himself to tip backward, and he fell right in Sam's lap.

Not even a twitch. Sam remained impassive as ever, though up close Dean could see the IV needle was definitely still inserted. He tried not to look, but saw anyway the blood glistening on Sam's neck. It was black in the poor lighting.

 _Hang on, man…_

Tilted against his brother's legs, Dean strained to reach Sam's left boot. It was an awkward position for more than one reason, the main one being that Dean couldn't actually see what he was doing. He worked his way down Sam's leg till he felt jeans turn to leather, then wormed his fingers down into the shoe. His whole upper body protested the uncomfortable stretch as he groped around his brother's boot—how did they _get_ into these situations?—but then he felt it, the thin piece of metal resting against Sam's ankle, and he let out a relieved sigh as he pulled the pin free.

He didn't even bother to try and right himself before going at his handcuffs—time was of the essence and he was more likely to end up face down on the floor. With much finagling and cursing, the cuffs finally clattered away, and after rocking his chair back to all fours, he was able to start working at the ropes securing his middle. The rest of his restraints came away quickly now that his hands were free, though it took several precious minutes to loosen the knots at his feet. Those too eventually came away, and Dean shot to his feet and…

Ended up plopping right back down. _Whoa._ He had to wait for his vision to clear, the room to stop merry-go-rounding, to try again. Then he stood in careful increments, allowing his head to stop spinning at each interval.

Once upright and fairly confident he'd stay that way, Dean's attention snapped to his brother. The goons that jumped them could come back at any second, and Dean had to suppress the urge to give Sam the thorough once-over he knew he needed. Instead, he went straight to the line pumping who-knew-what into Sam's system, quickly removing the needle before moving on to his restraints. He forced himself to filter out the sight of blood, working and murmuring random reassurances that, at this point, he wasn't sure whether they were meant for Sam or himself.

He left the rope around Sam's middle to keep him upright until he'd undone everything else, then pulled that away, too. Sam still showed no signs of coming out of it, and Dean had to catch him to keep him from falling out of the chair.

"Alright, Sammy, I gotcha," he muttered. He hated that he had yet to get any kind of response. He got up under Sam's arm and hoisted him to standing, staggering under the weight as Sam's legs refused to lock.

"Gonna make me carry you too, princess?" Dean grunted, scanning for an exit. The light was really messing with his eyes; everything was such a flat wash of gloomy orange that it took him a moment to find the door.

But then he saw it, hidden in a shadowy corner, and only as he started toward it did it occur to him that the door may be locked, and even if it wasn't, he had no way of knowing what was on the other side.

He hesitated. The thought crossed his mind that maybe he should leave Sam behind—go figure out the layout of wherever the heck they were, locate their confiscated weapons and the guys who took them, then come back for his brother once he was sure he had a clear way out. It really was smarter than the alternative…

Dean stubbornly shoved the idea away. There was no way he was leaving Sam on his own right now. Dragging his unconscious brother through unfamiliar territory with unaccounted-for enemies prowling around was hardly ideal, but at least Dean would know Sam was safe as long as they kept together.

Resolved, he shrugged Sam's arm more securely around his shoulders and half-carried him to the door.

The handle turned easily, surprisingly unlocked. Then again, why would anyone think to lock the door when their captives were already drugged and bound?

Dean couldn't help a smirk. These guys had _no idea_ who they were dealing with. He almost hoped they would run into each other again so he could show them…

Right. Brother first. Revenge fantasies later.

Dean poked his head into the hall. It was deserted. No guard posted at the door, no voices coming from other rooms, no indication whatsoever that anyone else was in the building.

 _Weird…But I'll take it._ Although he did have a nagging suspicion as to why the coast was so conveniently clear, he couldn't afford to dwell on it now. For the moment all he could do was take the stroke of luck as it was and hope he was right.

Keeping his voice low, he said, "Here we go, Sammy," and stepped out into the hall.

Time for step three…


	3. Chapter 3

As Dean picked his way down the hall, struggling to support his brother while keeping an ear out for trouble, he tried to figure out what kind of building they were in. The room they'd come from, as well as the halls they were now navigating, were all constructed of the same nondescript grey concrete. Pipes ran across the ceiling, wires snaked down the walls, and cracks spidered every surface. The floor was gritty with dust, and the chilled air smelled like rust and old rubber. The light fixtures were bulbs encased in metal cages reminiscent of the mesh coverings used in school gymnasiums to protect clocks, lightbulbs and the like from wayward dodgeballs.

It all suggested abandoned factory or warehouse. This came as no real surprise. As a hunter, Dean had found that such places were go-to hideouts for all sorts of baddies. This apparently included the two jerk-wads that had brought them here.

Speaking of…Dean picked up the pace. He really did not want to be around when those two returned from the world's longest smoke break.

He took the first right he came to, following nothing but the simple rule that if he kept moving, he'd eventually get somewhere. As he rounded the corner he noticed a capital letter 'B' on the wall beside the number three. He squinted. So…basement level, corridor three, maybe? It would explain the lack of windows, at any rate.

He scanned ahead, thinking. If this _was_ the basement, he should be looking for doors to a stairwell, not an actual exit. Keeping an eye on the walls for any further hints or directions, Dean pushed on, and was soon rewarded with a chipped, all-caps ' _STAIRS/ELEVATORS,'_ with an arrow conveniently pointing the way.

 _Yep, definitely too convenient,_ Dean thought, hoisting Sam up and following the arrow.

And sure enough, just past the end of supposed corridor three, there they were: a bank of obviously out-of-order elevators and the door to the stairwell. It was even propped open. It had likely been left that way to make it easier for their captors to carry the Winchesters' unconscious bodies through, but Dean saw it as a courteous invitation for escape. _Don't mind if I do..._

The stairs proved quite a challenge. After several failed attempts at getting his brother up the first step, Dean had to change tactics and resorted to throwing Sam over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Trudging up each painful step, he found himself longing for the days when Sam was the short, scrawny kid he'd been way back when.

He paused halfway up, death-gripping the rail as he caught his breath. _Freakin' sasquatch…_

Between Sam's lifeless weight and Dean's head doing cartwheels from the exertion, it was a minor miracle when they finally reached the top. The door here was thankfully also propped open, and Dean gratefully shuffled through.

The lighting on this floor was much better; though none of the overhead bulbs were on, afternoon sunlight poured through the barred windows that lined the wall. It was bright enough that Dean could see straight to the end of the hall where, lo and behold, was a set of double doors, complete with stuttering neon exit sign. A literal light at the end of the tunnel.

"Almost there, Sammy," Dean grunted.

Which was when their amazing streak of luck decided they'd had enough. Sweating, breathless, and thoroughly exhausted, Dean wasn't even thinking about being cautious; at this point, all he _could_ think about was getting the heck out as fast as possible. He wasn't paying attention to anything but the exit as he stumbled right into view of an open side room. A voice called out from within, and Dean's heart slammed into his throat.

 _Crap!_

They were caught.


	4. Chapter 4

**So I'm bored/depressed/not really caring 'bout sticking to my update schedule right now, so Merry Christmas, I got you another chapter. Hopefully this story hasn't been too bad so far; I mean, it's coherent at least, right? Sigh.**

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Dean leapt back from the doorway. He slammed himself against the wall, forgoing being gentle with the injured brother slung over his shoulders in favor of keeping them both from getting shot. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the bullets that were sure to come whizzing after them, the shouting, and the inevitable recapture…

None of it came. Confused, Dean opened his eyes. His heart was pounding so loudly that at first he could hear nothing over the rush of his own blood in his ears. Then the voice that had nearly spooked him into the afterlife began speaking again.

 _"_ _You looked everywhere? You're sure?"_

Dean frowned. Huh. Not exactly the kind of thing someone would be asking if they'd just found their captives playing prison break. With a dizzying amount of relief, Dean realized the guy was talking on a phone, not to them. They hadn't been seen.

Now knowing the guy was there though, he couldn't risk trying to sneak past the door. Carefully as he could, Dean lowered Sam to the ground, easing him back against the wall. Again, Dean had to mentally distance himself from the blood, the anxiety of seeing his still-unconscious brother so pale and motionless. Keeping a hand on his shoulder as much to make sure Sam didn't fall over as to reassure himself, Dean crouched next to the door and listened in on the one-sided conversation going on in the other room.

 _"_ _Alright, jeez, no need to flip your lid on me,"_ the guy was saying. _"I'm just trying to help. You're the one with your neck on the chopping block here. More so than me, anyway. Definitely zilch at their motel room though?...Uh huh…Damn. Well, looks like we're gonna have to question them after all."_

It was obvious the guy and his partner were talking about Sam and Dean—more specifically their motel room and a fruitless raid one of them had conducted on it—and it was also obvious that by 'question,' this guy meant 'beat some information out of them.'

Dean risked a peek and found the man casually pacing the room. He was currently facing away from the door, allowing Dean a good look around before he had to pull back again. There was a folding table off to one side, littered with an assortment of beer bottles and soda cans and, if the familiar leather sleeve hanging over the table's edge was anything to go by, Sam and Dean's gear. Of course Dean couldn't be sure, but it seemed a safe enough bet, and the phantom-gun sensation at his hip had him longing to retrieve his weapons. _Think we're really gonna need those soon…_

He didn't recognize the man; it wasn't the one who'd held Sam at gunpoint, so this must've been his partner—the one who had snuck up on and drugged Dean. He was average height and a little on the wiry side—no wonder he'd resorted to using roofies to bring his opponent down; in a fair fight he wouldn't have stood a chance against Dean. Dark denim jacket over a black t-shirt completed the 'I'm trying to be inconspicuous' look, which was ruined by his shock of ridiculous, bleach-blonde hair. The guy had to be pushing thirty, but he looked like a boy band member wannabe.

Dean was suppressing a snicker until the man's next words had him stiffening with rage.

 _"_ _And you did check the car right?"_ he said. _"Okay, but….dang, seriously? Whadja do that for, man? That was a nice car…"_

Dean ground his teeth. What the heck did he mean, _was?_ What the hell had they done to the Impala?!

This was one blow too many. They'd hurt Sam, drugged and kidnapped the both of them, and now they'd gone and messed with Baby. There were no more lines left for these jokers to cross, and Dean was ready to get his hands around their necks. What really ticked him off, though, was that the thing they were looking for would more likely get them killed than anything. Sam and Dean had practically saved their lives by taking it from them, and this was what they got for it…

A soft moan from behind sent Dean shooting to high alert, and he turned to find Sam finally stirring. His face was screwed up in a frown, and his head bobbed drunkenly as he tried to lift it. Another moan, louder; Dean could've sworn he heard a garbled version of his own name somewhere in there.

He hurried to clamp a hand over Sam's mouth before he could make any more noise. _Sorry, dude,_ he thought, guilt mingling with the intense relief that Sam was waking up. _Kind of picked a bad time to decide to be conscious._

Sam's eyes shot open at the contact and searched frantically until he found Dean's face. The panic instantly subsided, but the confusion remained. It seemed to take him a while to process what he was seeing.

Unsure how with it Sam was, Dean kept his expression as relaxed as possible. Inside the room, Bleach's voice droned on, oblivious. Hoping his brother would get the message, Dean flicked his eyes toward the room, then held a finger to his lips. _Keep it down, don't freak out, I've got this, just don't freak out…_

Again, it seemed to take Sam a little too long to figure out what was going on. He blinked owlishly up at Dean, looking so bewildered that Dean started to doubt if he could even identify what planet he was on, much less read facial expressions. But then Sam nodded under Dean's hand, the tension draining out of him. Whether it was because he understood the message or was just too out of it to do anything else, Sam slumped back against the wall and let his eyelids slip to half-mast.

Dean waited a breath to be sure, then risked taking his hand away. Sam didn't react, and right then, that was good enough for Dean. Keeping one hand on Sam's shoulder, he turned back to the door to listen.

" _You got an ETA?"_ Bleach was saying. Dean heard the pop and hiss of a beer being opened, followed by the clink of the cap skittering to the floor. _"I wanna know if I should go ahead and unplug those boys, so they'll be wakin' up by the time you get here_."

Dean's ears pricked.

 _"_ _...I don't know, I'm not down there…. I told you, there's no reception in the basement!... Jeez, Troy, cool your jets. They're tied up and sedated; it's not like they're going anywhere."_

There was a long pause during which Dean could just make out an angry, tinny tirade as Bleach's partner chewed him out.

 _"_ _Alright, I get it,"_ Bleach broke in, exasperated. _"I'm headed down there now. Ya happy?"_

 _Crap_.

 _"_ _Yeah. Yeah. Alright. See you in a few."_ The click as the phone snapped shut, then the scuff of boots…

 _Crap, crap, crap!_ There was nowhere to hide and no time to hide, anyway. Dean tensed, trying to convince himself he wasn't still unsteady from the drugs—he had to be ready to fight.

Or…maybe not. The footsteps didn't come closer; they receded. A door banged shut, and there was silence.

Dean peeked into the room. Empty.

Huh. Now how about that? The room had another exit. Maybe the Winchester family luck _was_ actually taking a turn for the better. Either that, or these guys were the most incompetent criminals of all time.

Then again, it would have to be the latter; good luck hardly landed one in a situation like this to begin with.

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 **As always, thanks for reading :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Probably should've prefaced the whole story with this (or maybe just stuck it to my profile, cuz it applies to pretty much everything I write and do): I do not know anything about anything, so kindly overlook all mistakes (though if you must, criticize gently :) Thanks for reading!**

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As it turned out, Sam and Dean's gear was indeed on the table. Knowing they didn't have all day, Dean hastened to retrieve it. Once he'd dragged Sam into the room and got him situated beside the table, he went straight for the weapons—a guy had to have his priorities—and quickly armed himself. Multiple knives slid into their usual hiding places on his person while his Taurus reclaimed the place of honor at his hip.

He then proceeded to work Sam back into his shirt and jacket, a process made only slightly easier by the fact that Sam was now awake. The drugs still had a lingering hold on him and were likely doubling the disorientation caused by the head injury—meaning he still couldn't stand on his own and probably had no idea what the heck was going on. Looking like it was taking everything he had just to keep his eyes open, Sam sat there complacently while Dean dressed him, occasionally twitching an arm or bending an elbow in an uncoordinated effort to help.

Once Sam's jacket was on, Dean stashed a handgun in its pocket. Even if Sam was too out of it to use the weapon, Dean knew he would appreciate it.

By the time he shrugged into his own jacket, the pound of approaching footsteps from behind the room's alternate exit announced that time was up. In a flash, Dean had his gun drawn and trained on the door.

Preceded by a string of angrily shouted words, the door was flung open, and Bleach came storming through.

"I don't know how it happened!" he was yelling into his phone. "I was here the whole time, there's no way they got past me…"

He pulled up abruptly, noticing the room's rather disgruntled new occupants and the gun leveled at his head.

"Hi," Dean said tersely.

The guy was all wide-eyes and stupidly flopping hair. "Um…Troy? They're—"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you," Dean warned. His hand tightened on the gun's grip. "Hang up."

"Look, you don't have to do this—"

He cocked the weapon. "Now."

"Alright, alright, jeez," Bleach said. He snapped the phone shut, quickly tossing it off to the side and holding up his hands for good measure. "He already knows you got out, though. He'll be here any second, and trust me, he's got the real guns, and—"

"Let me guess, he's not afraid to use them?" Dean cut in. "Well, that ain't really gonna do you much good now, is it?" He took a step closer.

Bleach yelped. "Waitwaitwaitwaitwait, look, I'm sorry, ok? Please don't kill me. We just wanted the medallion. I didn't really want anything to do with this, it was all Troy's idea, but we really needed it, we didn't have a choice, you see—"

Another step closer, another yelp. "Please, please, look, my name's Phil, Phil Davis, I have two sisters, a cat—"

"Shut up," Dean sneered, crossing the rest of the distance. Bleach—Davis, who gave a squat?—flinched and flung his hands up as though to fend him off. Dean dodged around him, keeping the gun on the man's stupidly-blond head while he performed a quick frisk with his free hand. "Let me tell you how this is gonna go down," Dean said. He found a gun at Davis's belt, tossed it out of reach. "And I'm only gonna say this once, so listen close, you hear me?"

Davis nodded frantically. "Just please don't kill me!"

"That medallion you're looking for. It's gone."

"But—"

"It's gone," Dean impressed. "It's melted down. Completely useless."

Davis moaned. "Oh no. You don't know what you've done—that thing was worth a fortune! Do you have any idea what it could do?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Probably a better idea than you. You know if you'd hung onto it any longer, it would've ended up killing you?"

Davis went stock-still. "What?"

"Well," Dean amended with a half-shrug, "Maybe not you specifically. But if we hadn't destroyed it, it would've started killing other people—people who aren't worthless scumbags."

"What are you talking about?" Davis demanded.

"It was cursed, jackass," Dean snapped. "It drains the life, the energy, out of everyone and everything around it to bring prosperity to its owner. I'm guessing you had to know it had some power, unless you went to all this trouble for it just cuz you thought it was pretty."

Davis's face had gone as white as his hair. "I had no idea. I swear. The woman who hired us to get it for her…she never said anything like that."

Dean cocked his head. "This woman have a name?"

"No. I mean, we never met face-to-face. Only talked over the phone, and she never said. She just gave us the job and told us she'd make it well worth our trouble. I had no idea it would be _this_ _much_ trouble, but we really need the money, man—"

"Can it." Dean pushed the barrel of the gun against Davis's head, eliciting a whimper. Dean rolled his eyes. This is what passed for a criminal these days? "I don't care why you did it. I don't care that you 'didn't want to,' or that you 'didn't have a choice.' I would shoot you right now, but you know why I'm not going to?"

Davis shook his head meekly.

"Because that guy over there," Dean said, "That guy you and your partner beat up and drugged?"

Davis's eyes darted to Sam.

"That's my brother," Dean growled. "And he doesn't like it when we go around killing people. And him—him I do care about. So I'm gonna let you live. I'm gonna leave you here, and we're gonna go, and you're not gonna do a damn thing to stop us."

Davis nodded frantically, wisely keeping his mouth shut, and Dean slowly circled in front of him. He made as if to turn around, then lunged back and planted a vicious kick to the man's upper thigh, smashing the syringes of sedative he'd felt there and bringing Davis to his knees.

"And remember," Dean said over the man's howls. He waved the gun, grinning mirthlessly. "Any sudden moves, and I have no problem shooting you in the leg. My hands might still be a little shaky from the drugs, though, so I can't be sure I won't accidentally hit a little higher."

Davis just fell back, clutching his leg and yelping curses.

"Alright," Dean said. 'Glad we had this talk."

He turned his back on the man and went to Sam, who hadn't moved an inch during the whole exchange. "Alright, brother," Dean said softly, starting to help him up. "Let's get you out of here."

Then the click of a gun being cocked came from behind, accompanied by a command. "Don't move, Winchester."

Dean froze instantly, sensing a bead being drawn on the back of his head.

 _The partner. Troy._


	6. Chapter 6

**Hope you're enjoying! If you have the time, leave a review and let me know what you think of the story so far-does it feel like the end is approaching, or does it seem like it's still got some 'splaining to do, so to speak? If you're leaning more towards the latter, let me know what you think still needs to happen, or what you want to see happen.**

* * *

"Back up. Lemme see your hands."

Sam's clouded eyes followed him up as Dean straightened and stepped away. Raising his hands, he turned to face the man who had all but bashed his brother's skull in and held a gun to his head.

Troy loomed in the doorway, tall, burly, and radiating all the competence that his partner lacked. In his hands was a .45 magnum, pointed squarely at Dean's chest.

Apparently, Davis had been right about one thing; this guy _did_ have the bigger guns, and he most certainly did not seem afraid to use them.

"Drop that," Troy said, flicking his gun to indicate Dean's. His face broke out in an ironic grin. "Huh. Déjà vu, am I right?"

Dean stared him down, expression flat but for the twitch of his upper lip as he suppressed a snarl. He didn't let go of the gun.

"Something's missing though, yeah? As I seem to recall—Oh, yes—," Troy switched his aim to Sam. "There we go."

Dean lurched forward instinctively, but Davis spoke up before he could do anything.

"Troy, don't," Davis gritted out from the floor. "They don't have the medallion anymore. It's over, man."

Troy didn't take his eyes off Dean as he replied. "They tell you that, Phil? And you believed them? Ah ah, drop it!" he said as Dean made a move to raise his gun. Troy gave the magnum an aggressive little jab in Sam's direction. "Seriously, how hard is this? Just put it down before things get messy."

If looks could kill, Dean wouldn't have needed the gun right then. He glared at Troy with all the venom of a horde of cobras and abruptly let the gun fall to the floor.

"Well alright," Troy smiled. He turned his aim back to Dean. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"Just stop, Troy," Davis tried again. "We're in enough trouble as it is. Let's just let these guys go and get out of here."

"You had one job, Phil," Troy said, ignoring the other man's pleas. "One job, and you screwed it up. I know you're new at this, but I have a lot more than a few debts riding on that medallion, and I'm not just gonna let these two walk because they _say_ it's gone. Think, Phil. Why would anyone destroy the thing, when it's practically Christmas, the lottery, and every good damn day of your life all rolled into one? Huh?"

"But—"

"They wouldn't," Troy interrupted. "They would lie about it so idiots like you would leave them alone, so they could have it all to themselves."

"Hey, ass-clown," Dean cut in scathingly. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly enjoying the best of luck here."

"Unless the next words out of your mouth are to tell me where my medallion is, I'd keep quiet," Troy snarled.

"Troy, I think he's telling the truth," Davis said. "He said the medallion—"

There was a deafening blast as Troy's gun went off. Dean flinched, but it was Davis who cried out. Shocked, Dean turned to look—

"Don't move," Troy barked, the gun flashing back to Dean. Dean had no choice but to stand there, listening to Davis gasp and gurgle behind him. His eyes locked on Troy's, half-expecting them to turn black; he'd rarely seen that look of murderous indifference on anyone but demons.

With a final choked breath, Davis fell silent.

"I was getting a little tired of listening to him whine, weren't you?" Troy grinned, and Dean knew there was no way he was going to be able to talk his way out of this.

"Now I'm gonna give you one chance to tell me where you hid the medallion," Troy drawled. "Then I start using you and your brother for target practice."

Like he was going to believe anything Dean said. Frantically trying to work up a convincing lie, Dean's gaze slid to Sam. He managed to catch his brother's eye for a second, then the younger hunter seemed to pass out again. His head thumped back against the wall, a slack hand falling from his pocket.

"I don't think he's going to be much help to you right now, so why don't you start talking?" Troy raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Dean swallowed, trying to keep his temper in check. "Look. If you let us go—"

"Nope," Troy interrupted. "Try again. One more chance 'cuz I'm feeling generous."

Said the man who'd just shot someone.

"Listen to me," Dean growled. "We don't have the thing anymore. You hear me, you son of a—"

"Oooh, wrong answer," Troy cut him off, obviously enjoying this.

Kicking himself, Dean spouted the last and only thing that might still get them out of this. "Alright, fine," he bit out. "It's in the car, okay? It's back in the car."

"Well, now I know you're lying to me," Troy said. "I tore that sweet ride of yours apart, and all I found was soda cans and salt containers. Y'all got some kind of sodium problem?" Troy shook his head. "Anyway." He cocked the weapon. "Where you want it? Arm? Leg? Pick something that won't kill you too quick."

"No, just listen to me—"

"Leg? Alright," Troy said. He lowered his aim. "I'll try not to hit anything vital, but no promises."

"Wait! Just wait—"

The thunder-snap of a gunshot filled the room. Dean jerked at the expected impact, but it never came. He ran a quick internal inventory, found nothing, and, stunned, heard Troy let out a wet choke. Blood was blossoming across the man's chest, bubbling at his lips; his eyes blew wide and vacant. Then the man fell to his knees—

—then his face—

—then didn't move again.

Mouth hanging open, Dean pried his gaze away from the now-dead Troy to look at his brother. Sam gazed back at him, his hand and the gun clutched in it flopping to his side. He gave Dean a faint smile.

"Sam," Dean managed, then had to clear his throat. He shook his head incredulously. "Dude, you've been holding out on me!"

Sam shrugged weakly. "Didn't…feel like walking," he said. It was a little breathless and a little shaky, but it was still the first coherent thing he'd said since waking up. "You—you're my ride…outa here."

Dean shook his head. He smiled, totally not fighting down a lump in his throat. "Bitch."

Sam's grin widened. "Jerk," he replied, and his eyes drifted shut.


	7. Chapter 7

**In regards to the incredibly small amount of medical stuff in this chapter, let me just get this out of the way and say: I'm not a doctor. But I do have the internet and a reasonable collection of nursing handbooks and medical dictionaries from the '90s at my disposal, so I did try... :)**

* * *

A few hours later, after retrieving the Impala and splitting town, Dean pulled into the parking lot of a new motel, cut the engine and glanced at his brother. For all the world, Sam looked totally conked out, but Dean knew better.

Keeping his voice low, he asked, "How's the head?"

It took Sam a moment to crack his eyes open, and another for him to ponder the answer to Dean's question. Finally, he croaked, "'Bout how you'd expect."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "So…live Metallica, plus construction site, plus roller coaster?"

Sam winced. "Yeah, pretty much. Picture riding out the world's worst hangover on the Scrambler."

"Oh. Yeesh," Dean grimaced. "Well, let's get you inside and cleaned up, then we'll ice it. Should take the edge off a little. Help the swelling at least."

He climbed out of the driver's seat, Sam popping his own door but making no move to get out. Dean came around and gave him a hand up, then a shoulder to keep him that way.

The second Sam was standing, all the color drained out of his face, and his eyes fluttered dangerously. Dean thought he'd lost him for a second, but then the younger man shifted to take more of his own weight, blowing out a shaky breath.

"You good?" Dean prompted.

Sam nodded, then quickly stopped and squeezed his eyes shut, going a little green. "Yeah," he gulped. "Yeah. Just let me sleep for a week and keep anything even remotely resembling food away, and I'm aces."

"Sorry, man," Dean said. "You know the concussion drill. Wake-up calls every two hours to make sure you're not gonna go all comatose on me."

Sam just groaned.

"You good to just lean against the car for a second?" Dean asked. "I need to grab a couple things from the trunk."

Receiving a thumbs-up in response, he made a bee-line for the trunk. Inside, their belongings were strewn about, looking like they'd been ransacked. Because they had. Troy hadn't exactly been neat when he'd searched the car. A smashed windshield, dented hood, and scratched paint job were also left courtesy of the madman who'd drugged and kidnapped them, but honestly, Dean's anger over the vandalism was vastly outweighed by the relief of knowing Troy hadn't discovered the trunk's false bottom. If he had, things would have gone down a _lot_ differently…

He snagged the first aid kit, popped the false lid to retrieve a carved wooden box, then slammed the trunk shut and returned to help his brother into the motel room.

"Okay," he said, depositing Sam on the end of one of the beds. "You just sit right there—don't pass out—and we'll get you cleaned up."

With a grateful sigh, Sam sank right down and started immediately leaning towards the pillows. Dean caught him, setting him upright again. "Seriously," he said. He double-checked that Sam would remain vertical, then rushed to retrieve a couple of towels from the bathroom. "I'm taking you to the hospital if you pass out on me again."

Sam straightened. "No—"

"I'm not kidding, Sam," Dean interrupted. "You've got a nasty concussion. I can't believe those idiots actually sedated you on top of it."

Wisely, Sam made no argument, and Dean began cleaning the wound, swiping at the dried blood with a warm, wet washcloth. He tried to be as gentle as possible, but Sam still winced at every touch and, if possible, went even whiter. Dean grilled him while he worked, forcing him to keep up with the conversation to stay grounded.

By the time he finished, he'd gone through the bathroom's limited supply of washcloths—which were probably never going to be their original color ever again—and had had to switch to sanitary wipes from the first aid kit. The wound was a decent-sized laceration at the base of Sam's skull, angry and red and stretched across a large knot that made Dean's head throb just looking at it. He couldn't see with all Sam's hair in the way, but he had no doubt that the surrounding skin was purple with bruises.

And on top of all that, the wound had begun to bleed again.

"Sam?" he asked tentatively. He dabbed at the blood, frown deepening when it showed no signs of stopping. "How do you feel about stitches?"

A groan. "Is it that bad?"

"Well, it's not that _good…_ "

Sam closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. "Just do it."

"You want some Tylenol?"

"You want me to throw it up on you?"

"I can't give you anything else for the pain," Dean warned.

"I know."

"And I'm gonna have to shave your whole head."

"Dean," Sam ground out.

"Alright, alright," Dean said, suppressing a laugh. He knew when to back off. Rooting through the first aid kit, he pulled out a suture needle and thread. "Just remember what I said about passing out again. Cuz they _will_ shave your head at the ER."

"Just get it over with," Sam grunted.

Dean threaded the needle, then snapped his fingers. "Oh, " he said, fishing in his jeans pocket. "Speaking of your fabulous locks—I almost forgot." He held up the bobby pin, the one that he'd used to pick the lock to their handcuffs. "Guess what saved our lives today?"

Sam took the pin, frowning. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. You might want to keep that on you for, you know, future emergencies."

Sam grinned slowly, then pocketed the pin. "Always knew you thought my hair was fabulous."

"Yeah, well," Dean said, giving the needle a generous douse of alcohol. "On any _woman_ , it would be."

The next day…

Dean tossed another log on the fire and stepped back as sparks furled into the air. Glancing away from the smoke, he looked up to see Sam approaching with a handful of herbs and other ingredients from their supply. The younger Winchester's face was still pale with what had to be a killer headache, and Dean had noticed him pausing every now and then as though waiting for the world to stop spinning, but he was vastly improved from yesterday. He was walking—if a little unsteadily—and talking—if a little slurred—but Dean would take that over an unconscious, unresponsive Sam any day.

"That fire gonna be hot enough?" Sam asked, coming up beside him.

"Meh," Dean replied. "Guess we'll find out. You got all the stuff?"

"Yep."

"Sage?"

"Uh huh."

"Crazy Latin incantation?"

"Right here."

"And…head?"

"Still attached, more or less."

"Alright." Dean clapped his hands. "Let's get this done." From the pocket of his jacket he pulled the carved wooden box he'd taken from the Impala's trunk the day before. Undoing the latch, he tipped the box's contents into his hand, and the medallion slithered out. It glinted on the end of its chain, gold and rubies gleaming eerily in spite of the overcast sky.

Sam peered over his shoulder. "Thing looks so harmless," he observed soflty.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. They stood there just staring at it for a moment. Then Dean sniffed, breaking the spell. "Well, let's get this thing barbequed before it kills someone."

"Someone else, you mean?" Sam started dropping ingredients into the fire.

Dean snorted. He gave the medallion a thoughtful toss. "Yeah. I guess so."

He waited for Sam to finish the first part of the ritual, then took over reading the incantation when it proved beyond Sam's current mental capabilities. From the way Sam squinted at the paper, Dean had to wonder if he could even read English right now.

After reciting half the inscription, Dean dropped the medallion into the fire. Blood-red sparks shot up as he spoke the last bit of Latin, and then they stepped back to watch it burn.

"You know," Dean said slowly. "You got your skull tenderized yesterday. We were both drugged, kidnapped, and almost shot several times. And all that was with a prosperity charm on our side. What's that say about our luck?"

"On _your_ side," Sam corrected. "You were the last one to put it on, remember? I think that's why _I'm_ the one with the major concussion." He shrugged dismissively, sighing. "Who knows? We get ourselves into enough trouble on our own. Maybe the medallion's curse, blessing, whatever, was all channeled into just getting us out of there alive. I mean, sure it sucks, what happened, but what are the chances that your IV would come loose? And that one guy, leaving the room through another door so you not only didn't get caught, but also had the perfect opportunity to snag all our weapons back?"

"So what you're saying is," Dean reiterated, "yesterday didn't suck as bad as it could have, therefor we were lucky?"

"Pretty much," Sam said. "I guess that's what happens when a good luck charm meets the Winchester family curse."

Dean grunted. The fire sent up another burst of sparks as the medallion melted into the coals.

Sam elbowed him. "Nice vocab, by the way," he grinned. "What happened to 'therefor' only being for essay-writing, book-kissing college dweebs?"

"Shut up," Dean griped.

Sam just laughed.

Trying to keep up the surly big brother front, Dean couldn't help but grin. In all honesty, Sam could've kicked him in the shins and run away laughing right then and Dean still wouldn't have cared. Because Sam was right; medallion or no medallion, yesterday could've gone down a lot worse. They were both still alive, and that was more than could be said for Davis and Troy.

Good luck, bad luck; blessing, curse; lottery millions or credit card fraud—in the end, none of it really mattered.

Dean was just glad he still had his brother at his side.

…THE END…

* * *

 **...Unless you don't want it to be :) My original reason for writing this story was to play around with a concussed Sam, and somehow seven chapters of actual (though rather shallow) plot happened instead. The concern over getting medical details correct deterred me from writing more, but I do have the beginnings of a chapter eight if anyone's interested. If you want to see some strictly hurt/comfort stuff in the form of concussed Sam and don't mind dubious medical info or lack of real plot, just say the word!**

 **Otherwise, thanks for reading!**


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